


if home is where the heart is (then we're all just fucked)

by dreadedlaramie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, M/M, impressionistic handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6378145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedlaramie/pseuds/dreadedlaramie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe whatever it is between Dean and Sam shifts right then and just like that, neat and simple like a date on a calendar or a state border (or a silver bullet to the heart). But here is how it changes, too: gradually and slurred, so slow that Dean doesn't notice until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if home is where the heart is (then we're all just fucked)

**Author's Note:**

> sam is 16, dean is 20
> 
> so close to canon-compliant i can almost taste it

Sam’s birthday that year they’re hauling ass to Chikasha, and without a calendar you wouldn’t know it’s almost summer, a chill in the air that gets worse the closer they get— by Lawton not even weeds are growing, and the morning they hit Ninnekah there’s frost on the ground. It’s over one hundred tornadoes and seven disappearances more before they catch up to the pain-in-the-ass  _ ala _ who’s behind all of it— she's  _ way _ too far west out there in Oklahoma, and it’s three whole days of research after they get there and another two of legwork to pin her down (but she goes down easy, at least, just silver).

Maybe whatever it is between Dean and Sam shifts right then and just like that, neat and simple like a date on a calendar or a state border (or a silver bullet to the heart). But here is how it changes, too: gradually and slurred, so slow that Dean doesn't notice until it's too late.

By June the summer has already started to blur together— the windows-down sound of the wind over Skynyrd while John pushes 110, pavement radiating warmth through denim to Dean’s knees, motel ACs blasting as low as they go, the same in every town and every city— and by July and August it's become just one big heat— dry and urgent and windy in Nebraska when they take out a vamps' nest, thicker and lazier the further east and south they go until by the Carolinas it's wet and heavy and impossible.

The summer blurs together until it's a Tuesday afternoon in August and Dean is still a good five months away from being legal about it but there's a six-pack of cheapass beer on the coffee table anyway. Dean is three beers down to Sam's half of one and he hasn't noticed how Sam is sitting just a bit too close to him, hasn't noticed how Sam has reduced the label of his bottle to a pile of paper shreds around him, hasn't noticed how Sam keeps staring at him all wrong— hasn't noticed that there's anything  _ to _ notice until it's suddenly too late and Sam leans that last little bit forward and kisses him. It's clumsy-quick and dry and Sam pulls back fast because it's dangerous waters he's testing, but not before Dean feels how Sam has picked at the skin of his lip with his teeth. Dangerous waters. Dean knows what he  _ should _ do is pull back  _ far _ , is push Sam away, is react with horror or disgust or anger, is anything other than what he  _ does  _ do which is what he  _ wants _ to do which is to drag Sam back forward, stitches popping in the collar of Sam's t-shirt as Dean pulls him in close enough to kiss him right back.

Sam is a small and sudden shocked intake of breath and Dean feels a little like he’s a monster and a lot like he wants to hear Sam make that sound again (and again, and again).

Then Sam is everywhere, hands and mouth and  _ him _ , crowding Dean against the coffee table until the edge is pressing a line into the skin of his back, and where Sam's hands slide to push Dean's shirt up and off is all dry amber heat, welcome even against Dean’s already overheating skin. Dean takes Sam's bottom lip between his teeth and bites, gently (or, well, more or less), and Sam gasps like it's brand-new and fuck for all Dean knows it  _ is _ , and he feels guilty and possessive and  _ hungry _ , feels wrong and greedy, wants every first Sam has to be  _ his _ . Even so he's almost scared to touch him, and there's a half-formed protest of  _ sixteen!!!!!!!  _ in the back of his mind (as if  _ that _ 's why this is fucked up, as if in two years it would be okay)— but he thinks rather than feels it, worries more that Sam will startle and spook and run like prey.

Sam's just inexperienced, and a quick study, too-- and Dean imagines that perfect score on the PSAT turning into a perfect score on the SAT, imagines Sam off to the better and brighter future he deserves-- doesn't have much more time for imagining because Sam is a  _ quick _ study, a bite here and a lick  _ there _ and Dean is gasping a bit against him already— and Sam's hand is slipping between them and he's tugging at Dean's belt and— and Dean wants to punch himself in the fucking gut because he says "Sammy… we should stop," and it’s true and he does mean it but the last thing he  _ wants _ Sam to do is stop. And what he doesn't say is the rest of it, is  _ before we regret it, before  _ you  _ regret it _ .

Sam hums an agreement into the bruise he's sucking into the hollow of Dean's throat and undoes Dean's belt.

Dean has a hand wrapped tight in Sam's hair and Sam is faster but Dean is still stronger, could pull away and bolt in half a second flat, and a part of him wants to, the part that keeps reminding him that Sam deserves better than this, better than him— but he doesn't, doesn’t pull away or run or shrink back, just clings tight like Sam is the last thing that’s left (and most days it feels like that’s true).

Then Sam  _ does _ pull back and Dean tries to follow but a hand on his chest stops him and he's certain that this is it, that Sam has just realised what a mistake this is, what a fucking mistake  _ Dean _ is— but Sam just leans back on his heels, hair an absolute mess where Dean held it, and looks at him, sizes him up. Dean feels raw and exposed, feels like he's about to be split open to the molecule. He shivers despite the heat and remembers Rhonda (last year, poltergeist case in Iowa), Rhonda who had looked at him a bit like that before she put him in a pair of her panties and broke him down entirely, fucked him with her fingers until he came from just that, begging and shaking and fucking  _ sobbing _ . He wonders if Sam sees in him whatever it was that Rhonda saw.

Sam sees  _ something _ at any rate, because he leans back in and kisses Dean long and slow and sweet, like it's just them in all of creation, like they have all of time to themselves. It feels too much like a promise ( _ just you and me against the world, always _ ) and that fucking terrifies Dean, makes him all but stop breathing, but Sam's hands are warm and grounding.

The kiss turns hungry, turns desperate, and that, at least, Dean knows how to deal with. He kisses back, just as hungry and just as desperate— because he is, desperate and  _ beyond _ hungry, full-on fuckin’  _ starving _ , because some screwed-up part of him has wanted this for months (in idle thoughts and accidental dreams, but, still, he’s  _ wanted _ this).

Sam flinches when Dean’s fingers brush the skin above the waistband of his jeans, an involuntary and embarrassed flutter of nerves and flesh as Dean pulls off Sam’s shirt and Dean feels tangled up and electric and wrong, want sharp down his spinal column and pooled alkaline low in his stomach.

Sam is somewhere between gangly and just lean, and Dean’s hands drink him in like a man in the desert (or like a vampire draining flesh of blood, or like a werewolf breaking a rib cage). Sam shivers everywhere Dean touches him, like he’s unused to having someone’s hands on him, and Dean winces internally at that but keeps going.

Dean moves for the button of Sam’s jeans, but here again Sam stops him, and Dean-- again, always-- thinks that that’s the end of it (he deserves as much), but instead, Sam shoves his brother’s jeans down past his hips and before Dean can really process any of it (though, honestly, he’s been working double-time through a tipsy haze to process any of this from the moment it started), Sam has Dean’s cock in his hand.

Dean isn’t sure he could stop Sam now, even if he wanted to, but he’s never wanted anything more than he wants this right now, wanted anything less than for Sam to stop and leave (and  _ regret _ ).

Then Sam starts moving and— the angle is awkward and the rhythm is too wrong and it’s drier than Dean would prefer but— this is something more than that, something transformative— and they have all the time in the world, anyhow, or rather, at least, enough time before Sam is off to the bigger and better future than Dean’s— and Sam’s hand slips over the head of Dean’s cock onetwo _ three  _ and Dean comes all over Sam’s hand (embarrassingly fast, but damned if he cares— at this point damned either way, really).

Sam looks smug, like for all his inexperience he knows anyway that concluded far quicker than intended, and Dean makes a face at him (unconvincing as it is, hazed by afterglow). Sam pauses a moment, contemplative, and Dean wonders a moment, until Sam raises his hand to his mouth and licks his brother’s come off the V of his thumb and forefinger. He gags the tiniest bit, but god how that doesn’t matter, and Dean lets his head fall back and exhales a shaky “ _ fuck _ ” in response. Sam licks his hand clean, adapting quickly and working his way toward  _ filthy _ (making, as was the intention, Dean wonder how that mouth on him would be, how that  _ tongue _ would be).

For all things change, they stay the same, and as Dean puts himself away Sam shoves at his shoulder and says “We were supposed to be researching”, instead of “Your turn” or any of the other things that he’s supposed to say afterwards, that Dean wants to hear; and Dean wants so badly to get his mouth on Sam, his hands pressing and pushing and pulling him where he wants, but instead, Dean pulls himself up and together, and the two of them pull out the ancient books they picked up from Bobby’s and the newer ones stolen from the library and begin poring over them like nothing happened.

**Author's Note:**

> a special shout out to everyone for letting me burn alone in this hell pit forever, you're all great or something


End file.
